


a terrible beauty is born

by entitled



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Lore Olympus (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, F/M, angry angry persephone, delicious angry ares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entitled/pseuds/entitled
Summary: The Bringer of Death calls War to arms and he responds.
Relationships: Ares/Persephone (Lore Olympus)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	a terrible beauty is born

... Around the fire at the club,

Being certain that they and I

But lived where motley is worn:

All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born...

'Easter, 1916' - William Butler Yeats

* * *

Ares is already down on the ground, as they say, when he senses her call. He’s overseeing a minor war between two largely irrelevant city-states. It is such a dull and predictable affair that Athena has fucked off somewhere else, so Ares is alone on the clifftop conveniently overlooking the battlefield. While Ares occasionally accompanies particularly valorous souls to the banks of the Styx himself, today there is little bravery to speak of and he only lingers for the taste of blood in his mouth and the thrum of male anger under his skin. The chaos of metal-on-metal and metal-on-flesh always sinks its claws into him, makes it hard for him to leave. Hateful, he knows.

The spike of godly fury that lances through him suddenly, then, is a shock. Ares’ mouth fills with a wet copper taste, his whole body suddenly hot with anger, flushed with violence. His skin mottles mustard yellow and orange and dark, dark red - he can feel it. The anger that calls out to him is an inferno to the candle of the battle below. No, Ares won’t be escorting any mortal souls anywhere today. Hermes or Thanatos can deal with them. Ares follows the taste of blood to find her.

When Ares arrives, it is to a structure fire blazing almost as hot as his own skin. Everything smells of ash and hot and the dark scent of burning flesh. The fire itself is loud, popping and hissing, the snarling beast that it is as it consumes the once-temple in front of him. Other than that, though, there is no screaming, no sounds of the dying. As if everyone has already been killed. Whose temple? Ares can still taste all that anger on his tongue, that low heat pulling in his gut, but it’s less focused now. Tastes a little hazier around the edges, less like glass and more like static electricity. She called him, though, in her anger. He’ll find her. The goddess who called for War. Once Ares has a taste, he can follow the trail more keenly than a bloodhound.

Making his way towards the temple, he can feel the heat of the scorched earth bleed through his sandals. Embers catch on his skin and, rather than cooling to nothing, they stay alight, studding his body with little orange stars. He manifests his helm onto his head, his armour falling into place around his chest and shoulders. His spear stretches itself into his hand. Ares has been called to arms and he won’t show up empty-handed.

The temple has caved inwards under the furious heat and its own weight. Ares can smell death by the scores in there: man, maiden, and child. There was no battle here. Climbing over parts of the structure that have swelled outward and crumbled, Ares rounds the back of the temple. When he sees her - his call to arms - his mouth floods with the hot taste of blood, blood, blood, and surprise.

Behind the temple he sees Demeter, nope. Hermes is with her, looking panicked. Nope. Lying in the fried grass at their feet is Demeter’s little spring goddess-child. Even unconscious Ares can feel the incandescence of her fury. Fates, it is delicious. At the sight of her, he burns hotter. Under her pink skin he can see the dark anger roiling: magenta, ochre, ox-blood, black. Past the rich blood taste, he can smell her properly: woodsmoke and salt and something sticky and floral. Kore, wasn’t it? Hm.

Ares burns so hot where he stands that the temple fire leans towards him, like seeking like. The flames do little to his skin but the concentration of light renders him practically invisible. Demeter is speaking to Hermes, urgently gesturing and, from the regular lowering of her brows, making several ungentle threats. Hermes is mostly wide-eyed nodding at Demeter, occasionally looking down at the unconscious goddess in the grass with concern. Ares can feel Kore’s consciousness slipping further and further away. The smell of her becomes less bloody and more herbaceous. He can taste the magic of her sleep - Demeter’s done something here to halt whatever Kore has started (or, perhaps not started but responded to). But Ares hasn’t been called to arms by some bloodthirsty mortal, whose desire for war could be ignored if he had more pressing matters, no. This is a divine call, and Ares will not let it go. The knowledge of anger made from woodsmoke and fresh flowers has sunk into his blood now. He could follow it from the ends of the earth to the height of Olympus with his eyes closed now.

Despite how delicious the taste of Kore’s fury, Ares takes his leave from the scene. He will return to the small goddess again, he will honour her bidding until she is ready to make war, and for an anger that wondrous and terrible he will tear down the fabric of the world if she asks. But for now, he wings his way elsewhere, somewhere inconspicuous. He doesn’t need Hermes watching as Demeter tries to beat his ass for witnessing something he can smell the goddess will try to cover up. That night Ares starts a brawl amongst men so hateful and glorious that Thanatos must make three round trips to gather those involved. When Ares laughs at them all his eyes leak tears of blood.

**Author's Note:**

> chapter title also from 'Easter, 1916' by Yeats
> 
> this work is inspired by a combination of Lore Olympus and also traditional myth


End file.
